Through the Day
by Kato Molotov
Summary: It's all about what gets you through the day. Runs pre-series through s6, albeit with large gaps in-between. Canon compliant.
1. Ditch Day

**Note**: These can be read, I suppose, as standalone one-shots. However, I think they work best as a cohesive piece. They are tied, even through space and time, as many of life's better things are. I hope you enjoy and tell me what you think, for better or for worse.

* * *

_Ditch Day  
March, 1996_

Almost guiltily, she realises that when the bell rings to end lunch, it will mark the third time she's missed her English class this week. She placates her conscience by telling herself she's not cheating her education, since she's still reading during the hour, and she keeps up with the busywork well enough. Mrs. Berg is the wrong side of 60 with blinding bleach-blonde hair that Dolly Parton would find tacky. The 11th grade English teacher is 90 pounds of bones powered by hate and stale coffee spiked with rum. Her only contribution to her students' educations are her occasional maudlin diatribes about how her husband died and her children don't appreciate her. The crazy old bat wouldn't notice it if a student danced naked in front of her, let alone notice when one is missing. She's doing herself and her education a favour by ditching Mrs. Berg's class and reading something new. Call it self-motivated learning.

She found it at her favourite bookstore, this little place packed in a converted townhouse in the West 70s, right between home and school. Her friends don't bother her there and her parents don't object to her spending time there. They always have new books, comfy chairs, and the unimposing company of the store owner's friendly Shetland Sheepdogs. She popped in that morning on the way to school on impulse, plucked the shabby hardback right off the shelf labelled "New! This Week!" It called to her. She was drawn in first by the well-loved bindings and fingermarked pages, and then by the cover art: a woman, posed with a gun and mirrored twice overtop a bleeding red background. When she opened to the title page and saw it was a signed copy, it was a done deal. Something that precious should have a new home to love it as much as the last one did.

She'd happily handed over the $3 her dad gave her for lunch and very nearly skipped the rest of her walk to school. Her new treasure screamed at her from her weary purple corduroy backpack all morning. It was all she could do to not open it in her first four classes, but she managed. Just _barely._

So too-tall, too-skinny, timidly-truant Katie Beckett sees her opportunity when biology finally lets out for lunch. She runs for it after making a quick appearance in the cafeteria. Making an excuse, she ditches Corinne and Maddie and Janna, and heads for her pathetic sanctuary. Travelling on autopilot, she finds her way out of the cafeteria unnoticed. Up a flight of stairs to the office hall, she walks brazenly past the principal's office as if she's on official business. Today she's feeling daring and stops to say hi to the Dean, acts as if she belongs there so as to not raise suspicion. Onward to the empty assembly hall, she passes off a side door next to the stage, down into a narrow corridor, down two disjointed half-flights built in different years, down again, keeps to the left. Past the strange lion-head fountain that hasn't worked in who-knows-how-long, and past the spare classrooms, through the art studio and the wood and metals shops.

It's deserted, the arts wing bathroom. It always is. No classes down here this time of day, no one thinks to check all the way down here for errant students, and that's what makes it perfect. The greying walls, cracking checker tiles and the flickering fluorescent lights give her headaches and it smells like wet clay and tempera paint and standing water and pot, but that's not important because it's _quiet_. And that's all she needs right now – a bit of quiet, a stolen moment for herself away from the teachers, the pressure, the exams, the rowdy boys and girl cliques, the soul-dead sameness of every single day.

Ducking into the last stall at the end of the row, she hangs her bag up, anxiously pulls out her new book and the granny smith apple she snitched from breakfast. She takes her seat, pulling her bony knees up to her chest so that the stall looks empty should anyone check for students. Katie takes a moment to admire the jacket again. It looks dangerous and a little sexy and it practically oozes adventure, and it's everything that here and now isn't. It's perfect.

**RICHARD CASTLE**

**KISSED AND KILLED**

Turning to the back inside jacket, she sees the author himself staring up at her and it's a little surprising. She's heard vaguely of Richard Castle and thinks her mom has a book of his, but she expected someone a lot older. And stodgier. And significantly less handsome. Smiling to herself, she dives into the book headfirst. Within moments, high school and parents and college decisions and friends and hopeless crushes are far behind.

It is with great reluctance that nearly an hour and a half later, she has to give up Alexandra Jones' world for her own again. Mr. Schock does not tolerate late homework, attendance is practically his religion, and she can't afford to miss math class. But as she trudges back to the real world – past the arts studios, past the lion fountain, past the stage – and slips unnoticed into the crowds, she feels lighter and happier, and she knows she can make it the rest of the day.

Tonight it's Friday and her parents have some dinner party to go to. But she won't be going out to the movies or sleeping over at Maddie's like she told them she might this morning. She knows exactly who she wants to spend her evening with instead. She'll spin a sad tale of an inconvenient stomach ache to avoid her friends in favour of camping out in her room. She'll wrap herself in her scratchy red and black plaid blanket, slowly devour a leftover bowl of her mom's carbonara, and spend the night helping Alexandra solve her deliciously juicy case. She'll live vicariously through the tough young detective and the world will fall away again. She'll stay up way too late and not care at all, because Richard Castle has his hooks in her now, and because the story matters more than those extra hours of sleep ever will.


	2. Dog Day

_Dog Day  
Late July, 1999_

The 12 weeks of summer until her first term at NYU crawl by. They couldn't take her for spring of '99 – hell, they made an exception to let her in in the fall. She doesn't let that hold her back. She's checked out every library book she can on criminal justice, forensics, profiling and law. Just because she has no classes doesn't mean she can't further her education.

By day, she reads. By night, she makes a study instead of how this city works, why it does what it does, why it doesn't do otherwise. She observes it in all its states, ventures into the times and places she's lived her whole life surrounded by, but just never dared to see.

Once she gets her dad home safe in the small hours and sees him into the guest bedroom, Kate doesn't go back to bed. She's _wired_. Something about the freedom and the anonymity of the dark makes her restless and itchy with anticipation. Dad'd kill her for it if he were conscious enough to know about her 3AM walks, but they help. Dangerous? Not really. The safety of daylight is an illusion in this city. Her mom was murdered in broad daylight right off a very public street. Why should the dark be any more dangerous?

When she goes out walking, she dons her bright red leather jacket (her only self-indulgent purchase in recent times) that makes her feel almost invincible. For a few hours, she's not Katherine Beckett and she certainly isn't Katie. She's Badass Becks, out for _justice_. It makes her feel braver than she is, like when she puts it on, she has a little bit of Alexandra Jones or Rachel Lyons in her. She can get through anything for those few hours, she can dare the nightmare, get a little thrill off it, and come back in the morning to face the day.

Sometimes she runs into the local cops, and if it's a slow night, sometimes they allow her to pick their brains about the life, let her wander around with them looking for trouble. She never tells them why and they don't seem to care since she doesn't ping their radar as a potential informant. To them, she's just some tag-along wannabe kid with a thing for cops, and as long as she doesn't get in the way, she's alright. They're a weary and cynical bunch and she likes their company, because they never question why or want to know how she's doing or look at her with pity. They give her a swig of beer or a draw off a cigarette and say, 'good kid,' when she pulls a face and says no to another. Mostly they seem to be fuelled by diner fare and disappointment, caffeine and stubbornness, cheap booze and rabid egos. Sometimes the black and white turns to grey and she can hardly tell who the good guys are and who the bad guys are. It's a cliché she's read in her impressive collection of detective novels; seen it hundreds of times from dozens of authors, and damned if it isn't completely true.

She wants in.

* * *

When she stumbles in as the streetlights greet the dawn, it's already oppressively hot and humid. Her hair sticks to her face and her jacket is a personal sauna. She notes with some surprise that her father is already awake. It's unusual for him these days. Jim Beckett was a habitual early riser once upon a time: the women of the house would wake to coffee and a hot meal, his gentle insistence that they all ate breakfast. Dinner was Johanna's domain, but breakfast was his. These days, she can barely get him out of bed by 10, coherent by 11 if she's lucky. He doesn't cook her mushrooms and tomatoes and scrambled eggs and throw her an apple on her way out any more. Instead, she forces him to eat a prepackaged granola bar or half a grapefruit.

She freezes, she didn't expect him there and her life revolves around knowing what to expect. She doesn't know what to say. He spots her, too late to escape.

"Where've you been, Katiebug?" he says quietly, like anything louder than a whisper may as well be a marching band in his head. The childhood nickname spilled from his loose and liquored tongue carves another hole in her gut.

She lies easily. She does that now.

"Just went 'round the block. Gonna stay in today and read."

"Katie, you have to do something," her father snaps, but the softening of his sounds make it that much harder to take him seriously. "Find a part-time, hang out with the NYU girls from... from... your old school, or..." he loses his thought, finishing lamely, "shomthin."

"Yeah dad, partying with my high school friends is just what I need. Jello shots and tequila binges. Hey! Maybe you could join in, right up your alley!" she spits acidly, and immediately hates herself for it. But that's what he deserves and by the looks of it, he knows it. She feels just a bit vindicated.

In for a penny, in for a pound?

"And don't call me Katie. It's KATE."

She whirls around before he can respond and retreats to her childhood room at the very top of their townhouse; one she thought she'd left behind forever just shy of two years ago. Her stuff had all been moved out, her mom said they were going to knock out the wall between it and the office and make a library. When they got around to it. Now it's hers again, slowly being re-colonized by her things and the memories they hold, the possibilities that were once hers. She's tried her best not to make it look so much like it did in happier times. The bed's against the wall with a pillow-side view out the window now. She repainted her wardrobe on impulse and it looks like shit but at least it's different. The happy twinkling string of lights that once hung over her window now light her closet, even though there's not much to see in there since her clothes are still in the moving boxes.

She should be learning to be roommates with a crazy girl or one who likes bubblegum pop music. Instead, here she is: life on hold and ten steps backwards, learning to be roommates with the ghosts of both her parents. Coping with it by running around in the city at night and lying to her drunken father by day.

The choked sob comes loudly and unexpectedly and she just hopes her dad doesn't hear. Burying her face into her pillow, she curls up as small as she can on her old bed and cries until her heart slams in her chest and she can't breathe any more. She's cried for her mother, she's cried for her father. Today she cries for herself. The opportunities she'll never have, the carefree life that's gone, the naïve trust that the world was good and no one would hurt her or let her down and that good triumphed over evil in the end. She cries for the knowledge that she's irreparably damaged now and nobody wants someone more damaged than themselves, and her potential to find the perfect kind of life and love like her parents had is _gone._

In time the pounding in her chest stops and her tears slow. She can't face her dad yet, not yet. Eventually. A little later. It's only 7:30 in the morning, let him eat something and sober up. She'll apologize in a few hours when they're both able to stomach it.

Desperate for a little comfort and escape, she rummages through a box marked "Books – Fiction" and finds just what she needs. "One Bullet, One Heart" is the newest Castle hit. She bought it brand new at its release, stood in line an hour for it, just a few short weeks ago. The book's release was the first thing she had looked forward to in months. Her favourite author never let her down. It's already beaten up by her use and abuse, ready for the damage discount if she were to trade it in at the used bookstore (never). This one is more intensely psychological than his previous books. She wonders where the author gets his material and briefly imagines him interviewing serial killers Clarice Starling style, or following an FBI profiler. Filed under: cool jobs she'll never have.

Moving to a darker and cooler corner of the room, away from the heat emanating off the window, she slinks down to the floor and loses herself in the story, finds comfort in those beautifully flawed characters she already knows so well. And for a while, it's all okay. By the time noon rolls around, she's strong enough to haul herself to a cool shower and clean herself up. She's ready to face her dad again, to apologize for the words she didn't mean and for those she did mean. She's ready to wait patiently for the dog days of summer to end and for the new life she'll forge for herself to begin. She's ready to keep going.


	3. Work Day

_Work Day  
June, 2009_

Stolen away in the observation room, he finds himself scribbling the details of their latest case down in his moleskin notebook, along with all the other random thoughts and plot points that whiz through his mind. Pausing, he takes a moment just to watch her in action. It's not a particularly interesting case they're working, some of the boring, everyday work he's seen since he started spending his days at the precinct. It would be inexplicable that he'd stick around and watch, if not for the show she puts on each and every case, no matter how mundane. Never occurred to him during that first case that he'd give up his lifestyle of parties and poker games to be (pretend to be, anyway) a working stiff, but that's the price of inspiration.

She's taking the tigress approach this time, circling around her prey. Beckett, he's discovered, loves to play with her food. She walks slowly behind the tense teenage girl, her posture downright predatory (and holy mother of god that's hot). She prods the wasp's nest until it stirs.

Outside that room, she's so many things. She's a tease, she's vulnerable, she runs hot and cold, she lets him into the private pain of her mother's case and then pushes him away. She's arrogant and confident one moment and beaten down and burnt out the next. She's obsessive and determined and fierce. She's confusing and frustrating and difficult. But in the interrogation room, she's one thing and one thing only. She is the sum of all her parts in there, and all that swirled together? There's only one word he could find to describe her.

_Extraordinary._

He writes it down, for the second or tenth or maybe fiftieth time. Underlines it.

The way her whole being lights up when she interrogates a suspect has stoked his imagination in so, _so_ many ways. It may in fact have been what drew him to her as more than a passing curiosity or an opportunity to ride along and play cop for a day, when he saw her sweat Harrison Tisdale and pick up on the over-prepared alibi that even he had missed. The writer's block that had plagued him for months after he killed off Derrick Storm was banished violently the day he went home from their first case and wrote a scene with a savvy female detective breaking apart a suspect with exquisite precision and skill. The words poured from him with such ease and he knew he had to see her again, to weasel his way into her world if he could, all in pursuit of that lightning flash of inspiration.

Watching her pick apart a suspect or helping her deconstruct a story and strip it to its barest form to find the truth hidden within is a rush. Hell, it's more than a rush – it's quickly become an addiction. He's fascinated with her process.

The first act is the persona she puts on for them. She sheds her skin at the door and takes on a new one, becomes whoever they need her to be. It's a tailor-made trap to lull them into security or to scare them into a panic or to confuse them into revealing something. The second act? She retreats. Gives them a little while to sweat it. She retreats back to the murder board and she – _they_ – compile whatever they've learned. They sort through it, spin theories, look for anomalies. When they've found something, or they just have a good hunch, it's time for act three. She goes back in, circles around them, reveals just enough of her hand to bait them in. And the grand finale, act four: she pulls their threads one by one by one until the whole damn sweater starts to unravel. Before they know what hit them, they're spilling their guts and she wrings every last molecule of information from them. Hell, the last dirtbag she had in there was _begging_ for a pen and paper within the hour, ready to just lay it all down if she'd just _stop._

She brings colour back into his world – his literary world and his real one. Nikki is thriving on the page and he's thriving on the real thing. He feeds off her energy and that crackle and spark. His truest happiness has always been found in creation, aside of course from Alexis and the occasional really good whisky. Derrick Storm was the better part of ten years for him, and honestly? He feels like he's been in a bad relationship for the last three years. Another sexless, joyless marriage of obligation that felt like the right thing to do at the time. Man, wouldn't Freud have a field day with that thought. Killing off Storm was cathartic, but it left him grasping for something new, an inspiration of some kind. His low point had been at that party: his mother telling Gina that he was blocked, humiliated by her at his own book launch, ridiculed by every face in the crowd for killing his golden goose. And then Detective Kate Beckett stalked in and made life a whole lot more interesting.

Oh, he still thinks about that not-so-long-ago day often. Very often. Sometimes just replaying it, sometimes taking it straight from "RICHARD CASTLE!" and letting his imagination run with the possibilities of the night if a snarky detective had _stormed_ into his launch party and a pesky murder wasn't involved.

She didn't care that he'd killed off Storm, she wasn't impressed by his wealth or his charms or his connections or his distinguished career. She treated him like an equal when he deserved it – he found himself wanting to deserve it quickly – treated him like he was nothing special and a thorn in her side the rest of the time. Typically he enjoys it when people fawn over him, but hey, two divorces, dozens of shallow friendships dependent on wealth and recognition, and a chain of relationships (both platonic and otherwise) with various 'muses' are proof enough that being treated like a rockstar isn't as much fun in the long term. Friends or lovers, they all start out treating you like royalty, like they're lucky to merely stand in your presence. And the novelty of that is fun for a while. Then they realize you're a person with feelings and baggage and bad habits and major flaws and a larger-than-normal capacity to screw up, like everyone else. And the moment the illusion is shattered, well, they're gone, mentally if not physically. Good for an amusing distraction at best.

Beckett barely treats him like a person at all. He likes it.

He'd fully intended to make her his latest muse from the first case forward. With the full benefits of being his muse, if he could catch her off-guard for a moment and pull her (_willingly – _he's a jerk and big enough to admit it, but he's not a creep) into his bed. Or the supply closet at the precinct, he's done worse. But she was not so easily won, and soon enough, 'muse' didn't cut it any more. He's had many of those. They're good for information, for a quick flash of inspiration, they're a convenient way to cherry-pick character traits he likes and discard those he doesn't. They're good for the initial inspiration, but quickly enough, the person fades into the background and the character takes on a life of his or her own. That's what a muse is to him. Not this one.

Detective Beckett inspires and surprises him all day long, and Nikki Heat gets him through chapter after chapter when he goes home. Even if he's constantly rewriting chapters because Beckett's done this or that and suddenly Nikki pales in comparison on the page again. Whenever he feels blocked or frustrated or doesn't know where the story's headed, all he has to do is stop into the 12th or recall whatever happened last time he did, and it pushes him through just like that. Not to mention that playing cop has been _way _more fun than anticipated. He wants more than a muse to tag along with and annoy, though, the annoying part is still a great motivator. After the gunfight that left him feeling like a reporter behind enemy lines (and hey, there's Rook's new back-story), he knows just what he wants, and it's not some throwaway muse. She needs a partner and he's just the guy to fill the position. Sure he's not a real cop, but he never let reality get in the way of his ambitions before. Why start now?

So he changes tactics with her. He stops flaunting his connections that initially keep him there, starts trying to earn his place. He stops throwing it in her face that she's stuck with him, starts trying to make himself so useful to her that she wants to keep him around, _needs_ him around. With great efforts, he stops trying to seduce her – overtly, at least, that's still not off the table – and starts trying to just be a partner, albeit still a flirtatious one.

He's forced to do something he's been lucky to avoid his entire adult life: work with others. Like equals, like colleagues. His profession is a solitary one and he never did like group work, but this is worth the long-game and as far as teams go, he could do far worse than the detectives at the 12th. He thanks them for their early tolerance of him with an espresso machine (not entirely unselfishly, if he has to drink another cup of that battery acid they call coffee...) and makes a point of fraternizing with Esposito and Ryan. It's not a difficult task; he finds he enjoys their company. They're real, like Beckett, and besides wanting a spin in his Ferrari, they remain equally unimpressed by his status and they just like _him_.

It's refreshing and a little bit frightening to be judged on his personal merits and failings, rather than his fame or his looks or his latest bestseller. But whatever inspection they gave him, he seems to have passed, and being part of the team is the reward in and of itself now. The inspiration is great, but playing cop is better. For now. He tells himself that he'll get it out of his system eventually, move on to another topic and a different inspiration when he's exhausted the wealth of topics here, but it's new and different and it's just what he needs.

He's spent who-knows-how-long there in his own head, while Beckett stalks around the interrogation room. Act two. She'll be retreating in a few minutes, then go in for the kill soon enough once she's collected herself and found some ammunition. He knows by her body language and the glint in her eyes that she's pretty sure the girl has information. She's not their killer, they eliminated her together days ago, but she's hiding something and Beckett is going to find out what it is in short order. He figures he has a few more minutes before it gets to the good part - the part where they theorize and gather evidence and poke and prod and unravel the next piece of the mystery. So he slips out of observation and meanders over to the break room.

Making himself a coffee, he pauses. He's not sure the gesture will be appreciated, but by the looks of her and the way they've been running themselves ragged on this case for a week already, she needs it. What the hell. He knew how she liked her coffee weeks ago, had even ordered her a few on his way to crime scenes with good results, but making her one is a new venture. Let her yell at him if it's the wrong thing to do, because he's secure enough there that she won't kick him out of the precinct over it, it's worthy of a few days at most of insults to his profession or his masculinity, and he can take both in stride. Even if she gets pissed, it's still fodder for his imagination.

It doesn't surprise him when she barrels back into the bull pen, the interrogation room door slamming in her wake. She's ramped up, all electric, the tension practically radiates off her in waves. He very nearly retreats and doesn't offer her a coffee for fear of setting her off or breaking her concentration, but it's too late and he's been seen.

What does surprise him is that when she sees the extra coffee and makes the connection, she doesn't jump down his throat. She doesn't snap at him or tell him to screw off and stop trying to ply her. She doesn't ask him what he put in it or why she should trust that there's no rubber cockroach in the bottom (because he did that to Ryan last week and it was _hilarious_). Instead, her expression softens fractionally; her shoulders drop just a little bit. She makes a bee-line for her mug and seizes it, nearly spilling the liquid life source contained within.

Castle thinks it might be the new hottest thing he's ever seen from her (and that list grows every day) when her full lips wrap around the edge of the cup, her eyes shutter closed, and she makes the faintest of moans – a happy little sound he'd die to hear again in a different context. Or in this context, for that matter, just make that sound again and he'll happily make her coffee every day. Pure relief floods her tense features.

When she comes up for air, half the cup already drained, her mood seems greatly improved.

"Thanks. You have no clue how much I needed this," she says distantly and without her usual bite. It's like she's forgotten to pretend she hates him for a moment and he's certainly not going to blow it by being an ass. He amends – he'll _try_ not to blow it by being an ass, because sometimes it's intentional and sometimes it just happens.

He chooses his words carefully.

"Whatever gets you through the day, right?"

Beckett simply nods her concurrence and sips at his peace offering contentedly. Both feeling re-energised and centred, they head over to their murder board and dive in as she prepares for her fourth act and he tries to contain the overflow of inspiration he's feeling right about now. He's worked a full shift with the detectives at the 12th, but he knows the moment he gets home, this ordinary day will beg to be poured onto the page and he'll wind up pulling a full night at his laptop as well. Sleep is a price he will gladly pay.


	4. Day In

_Day In  
February, 2011_

"Don't know 'bout you guys, but me? I'd set myself up on one of them little islands in Florida, no mansion 'cuz who wants to clean that, but a nice place, garage full of cars. Buy a Ferrari newer than yours, Castle. Such a shame, car like that when you drive like a grandmother. Open roads, no other cars, me and 600 horses: Miss Fiorano. Tha's my idea of paradise."

Kate laughs. "Poetic, Espo."

She's coiled comfortably into their booth at the Old Haunt, Castle at her side, quiet for once. Ryan and Espo sit across from them, with Lanie halfway in the ex-soldier's lap at the aisle. They're all drained, but wholly unprepared to go back to their quiet houses to be alone with their thoughts just yet. So they filed into two cabs when the day wound down, directed them both to the familiar bar that's almost home now, the silent agreement to hold each other up at the end of the night hanging between them.

"Mmhm, and where you think I fit in there, Jaaa-vi?" Lanie asks archly and Esposito's expression says it all. He's talked himself into a corner and he'll spend all night paying for it, not to mention being a cheap laugh for his friends while she torments him.

"In the passenger seat?" Wrong answer. Lanie is most definitely _not_ a passenger-seat kind of girl and whatever she does underneath the table to make him squirm like that is proof enough.

"Keep digging, Esposito, we've got all night to watch this show," jokes Castle, his first comment in ages.

Espo throws Castle a death glare that looks entirely unthreatening while still wearing the half-pained, half-aroused (_eww?_) expression from whatever Lanie's up to.

Ryan saves the day, turning the conversation away from the on-again-off-again pair, who are apparently _quite_ on again… for today at least. The whisky probably doesn't help matters, and she suspects there will be tension in the workplace tomorrow when they both stumble in, raw and hurt and hung over, but they've had a rough case and far be it from her to judge their way of dealing with it. God knows her ways aren't any more constructive.

"What about you, Castle? Surely the writer has some grand vision of what paradise or heaven or whatever the hell you call it means."

Castle considers for a time, his features fatigued and contemplative. He's uncharacteristically solemn lately, a long and difficult case affecting him even more than the others. It's always hard with cases that involve kids, and she can scarcely imagine how Castle must feel about it with the added parent's burden that the rest of them don't yet carry, can't yet understand.

He's forsaken his usual drink and stuck with a coke, not even a little rum in it. Castle says he's being noble and making sure the rest of the team gets home alright. And he means it. But there's more. In reality, Kate knows instinctively that he doesn't trust himself to stop tonight, with the image of that little boy's mangled and used body in his head, not to mention the laughter of the unrepentant monster who did it ringing in his ears. Once started, he'd be helpless to stop. He'd drink until he passed out just to forget the broken wail of a mother who he heatedly accused of putting her kid in harm's way. He'd drink if it let him forgive himself for angrily shouting at her, the question on everybody's mind: how could she sit there and defend that disgusting sack of shit she calls a husband? He'd drink if it meant he could quell the rage that Kate could practically still see boiling under the surface, rage he very nearly let loose on the scumbag who deserved it and so much more. It was the first time she'd ever seen him lose his cool on a suspect, at least one who wasn't posing a direct physical threat to any of the team. It had taken Esposito and a uniformed officer both to haul him out of interrogation before they had a lawsuit from a paedophile on their hands.

Finally, he answers Ryan's question and snaps her from her thoughts.

"Paradise? Same as Johnny Cash's, I expect."

Her partner's bittersweet smile and tranquil tone don't match his seemingly flippant reply, but she's in no mind to dwell on it as her second Irish coffee works its magic, dimming her natural observation skills and engulfing her in a warm, pleasant haze that's almost good enough to make her forget the case from hell. She feels the leather seat of the booth shift under her and watches Castle rise.

"Be back in a minute, going to call Alexis and tell her I'll be home late."

Kate smiles wistfully, excusing him by way of a nod. Say what you will about his childish interests, his hyperactivity, his immature jokes – Rick Castle does not screw around when it comes to being a parent.

Turning to Ryan in order to avoid looking at the increasingly handsy couple, Kate placidly watches him check his own phone, scrolling, oblivious to her. The moments fly by, not really comfortable but not really uncomfortable either, thanks to the drinks and the familiar company. The technogeek detective finally looks up at her, and just as quickly, glances to where Castle stands near the bar, his broad back to them as he wraps up his phone call. Ryan's expression turns from confused to something she can't quite pin down. One last look at his phone, he hastily stuffs it back in his jacket's inner pocket, and the moment swims away from her almost forgotten as she takes another creamy sip of her drink.

* * *

The phone is _way_ too loud. Who the hell set the ringer volume to DEAFENING?

Kate sits up and her head throbs, the sure signs of a hangover and what will inevitably be a morning from hell. Groggily, she fumbles around in her covers for her phone and answers the call.

"Beckett," she croaks.

"_Sorry to wake you, Detective, I know it's early, but we've got a situation,"_ comes the smooth but tense voice of her Captain.

She immediately stiffens, expecting the worst.

"_Nothing like that_," Montgomery assuages her preemptively. He knows her too well. "_Seems there's been an escape up at Sing-Sing. That forger George Heller we put away last year? He was put in the prison infirmary last night, they were transferring him to the hospital for a suspected burst appendix, but en route, he attacked the guard, stole a gun, and took the ambulance over. He had the driver hostage but let him go up in Pawling before he crossed into Connecticut. FBI is on a manhunt for him already and they want your team assisting, you know his crimes and his profile better than they do. They stormed in an hour ago and have set up camp in the bullpen. I called Castle earlier, he's on his way in, thought you'd like your coffee there waiting for you."_

She breathes a sigh, on edge already but ultimately just relieved it's not bad news from her team this time.

"Be there in thirty," she groans, more childishly than she hoped, but Montgomery's indulgent chuckle before his end of the line clicks off tells her he's sympathetic and has an idea of what she's dealing with, probably borne of his harder, younger years as a detective.

Opening her eyes for the first time that morning, the world still has a blurry quality. She notes that she's still dressed – just how drunk did they get? She blinks the sleep from her eyes and immediately, her detective's senses kick in as she plays the 'what's different in this picture?' game.

Her clothes – rumpled but still fully in place – should tell her that she came home alone last night, but her shoes are nowhere to be found. She always puts them at her bedroom doorway. Her coat is folded over the back of her chair, not in her closet. The next clue is the unopened bottle of water and the two Advil sitting on her night table.

Castle.

Oh no. What if—

Then she sees the bright orange sticky note, not from her own tablet. She immediately recognizes her partner's messy scrawl.

'_**Do NOT think about skipping the Advil.'**_

Heh. Okay, the natural order of things is still somewhat intact. Castle probably wouldn't have written her a note like that if she'd done something stupid and reckless.

She _doesn't_ even think about skipping the Advil, knocks it back gratefully and chases it with the water before making her way out into her open-plan living and kitchen area, checking the door out of habit. Confused, she sees the deadbolt is locked along with the doorknob's own lock, though the chain is left undone.

"Castle?" she calls tentatively. "Castle? You still here?"

No response. Could he have just left in the time it took Montgomery to hang up with him and dial her?

Not likely, she deduces. The water wasn't cold. If he'd been there just a few minutes ago, he would have put a fresh bottle from her fridge on the table.

Shoving the mystery aside in favour of an expedited morning routine, she quickly jumps in the shower and reassembles her memories of the night before. She remembers clearly about Ryan ducking out before he was too drunk to respectably go home to Jenny. Next it was Espo and Lanie making an embarrassing exit together, a good hour and a half later at the very least, both extremely drunk. She remembers Castle threatening to call the cops if they didn't leave – _oh god, Espo's face: drunken befuddlement crossed with fear of Castle's dire threat_ - before he hailed a cab and sent them to Lanie's apartment. Kate had overheard it all from the booth and virtually howled with laughter. They _were_ the cops!

It was funnier when she was drunk. She vaguely remembers Castle driving her home himself, and then… nothing. Oh well. He'd seen her bedroom before and evidently hadn't even looked in her closet to put the coat away, and she doesn't see any vomit, so she's probably okay. Not like Castle is any stranger to this scene, if Martha and his own reputation are anything to go by.

Finishing up her morning routine in record time, she very nearly darts out the door without her shoes, but barring a major traffic accident, she'll make it in on time.

Just another day in paradise.

* * *

When she arrives at the precinct, the place is swarming with feds. Among the sea of Men's Warehouse suits and identical haircuts, she spies her partner, leaning against the doorjamb of an empty interrogation room. He meets her eyes across the crowd with an understanding smile and she nearly runs to him, dodging several strangers in the process.

"Morning, Beckett," he greets and gestures to her coffee a bag that she assumes contains breakfast. "Seems our desk has been commandeered by the _federales_ here. So nice of them to ask, glad to see that manners haven't suffered in the higher levels of the law."

She fails miserably in her attempt to keep a stern expression.

"Plural of _federale_ is _federali,_ Castle."

"Not according to my friend Sal, who is _definitely_ _not_ in the mob," he remarks blithely while waggling an eyebrow, his denial intentionally specific. Could the man be any more shameless? She doesn't care, it's kind of endearing. For someone who'd tell a cop that he's friends with guys who are _definitely_ _not_ in the mob, that is.

Busying herself, she opens the bag to find not her usual bear claw pastry, but several packages wrapped clumsily in foil. Cautiously she opens one to find… a sandwich? She peeks into it. A flattish soda bread quarter with a pocket cut in, stuffed with a slice of grilled tomato, a fried egg, a small amount of cheese, and topped with two bacon rashers.

"Hangover cure," Castle answers her unspoken question. "Best there is. Eat it with haste, milady, the mighty g-men hath summoned us!"

The sandwich is still slightly warm when she takes her first bite and _oh_ it's so good.

"This is fantastic, Castle. You make this?" he nods, the praise lighting his features. "Glad to see you're over the Smorelette."

"I will _never_ be over the Smorelette. I'm about as over the Smorelette as a D-list actor would be over their cancelled TV show that was cheated out of a chance for greatness!" the writer replies dramatically and she rolls her eyes.

"Well, thank you for making this instead, since we mere peasants don't appreciate your culinary sophistication," she teases, before adding gently, "seriously, though. Thank you."

"No problem. After my… outburst, yesterday…" he lets it dangle for a moment, struggling for words, "you guys kept me going. I figured it was the least I could do."

He fishes around in his jacket for a moment and produces a key. "Yours. Didn't know where your hiding place was."

Ah, she must have given him her spare last night to lock the door behind him. She almost reaches for it but hesitates halfway through the idea.

"Keep it," she says, before she knows what she's thinking. His raised eyebrow asks for him and she recovers quickly. "Next time my apartment blows up, you won't have to kick in a door." Kate smirks at him and he relaxes back into their comfortable routine. Mystery solved, potential awkwardness averted. Coffee and casework. Onward.

Feeling considerably better and more suitable for the often-frustrating company of the feds, they emerge into the fray. She nearly bursts out laughing when she sees Espo and Lanie doing the walk of shame, both looking significantly worse for wear. Espo has on his gym clothes, the ones he keeps at work, so she assumes he did not get back to his own home last night. They both have wet hair and dark circles under their eyes. Despite this, Kate can't help but notice they're not on opposite sides of the room yet like they are during their usual cool-offs; in fact, they're nearly touching shoulders still. The wonders never cease.

"They were _really_ drunk last night, weren't they?" she whispers to her partner.

"Beckett, I don't think _anybody_ has _ever_ been as drunk as they were last night and still managed to not pass out on the bathroom floor. It's impressive, really, in a disturbing kind of way. Espo's last words to me when I shoved them into the cab were 'please don't tell my mom.'"

It's a struggle to keep from laughing at the mental image, and altogether impossible as Castle does what Castle does best: attracts attention to himself.

"ESPOSITO! DOCTOR PARISH! NICE TO SEE YOU THIS MORNING!" he booms as their friends approach. They both wince as the writer grins broadly.

"Shut up," Lanie mumbles, adding something incomprehensible under her breath that has a 50/50 chance of being 'Castle,' or 'asshole.'

"Not cool, bro, not cool," Esposito growls out.

"Well then, I guess you two," Castle sing-songs as he waves the bag with the remaining sandwiches in front of them, "don't get any breakfast. Beckett and I will just eat it all by ourselves."

Lanie's annoyance slips away a bit and she snatches the bag, muttering "thank you, Writer Monkey," more sincerely before retreating with her breakfast to the morgue. Esposito doesn't even bother with words as he savagely wolfs a sandwich down in an impressively short time while the feds brief them. He tries to snitch another, but Castle simply moves the bag out of reach and Espo pouts. Ryan turns up soon enough to claim his share of the meal and in no time, they're all hard at work.

It's a hectic start to another long day, but as far as mornings from hell go, this one isn't so bad at all. She feels surprisingly optimistic and geared up for whatever the day brings. In fact, if not for the escaped maniac and the anonymous suit _touching stuff _on her desk, Kate might label it fun.


	5. Day Out

_Day Out  
January, 2014_

"C'mon Castle, let's go home."

Loathe to pull his eyes away from their friends – not to mention the adorable baby girl they've already laid claim to as Aunt Kate and Uncle Rick – Castle complies reluctantly and follows her out to the car. They drive to her place without even thinking; Castle has already informed his mother and Alexis that everyone is okay, and Martha wouldn't expect them back at the loft after a day like this.

They need quiet and comfort and rest and each other. No interruptions.

Brushing his full, still-parched lips over her hairline as they set their things down in her entryway, Castle murmurs, "Go have a shower. I'll go down to the market, get something to make dinner. Doubt anything in your fridge is edible at this point."

Kate wants to protest the implication but realises he's probably right. She rarely comes back here any more, unless she and Castle need to be well and truly alone or she needs something from her personal files. In fact, the fridge might need to be condemned.

"'Kay," she smiles tiredly at him and watches him leave, beating down the impulse to ask him not to leave her alone. She's a big girl, she can spend a few minutes by herself for god's sake. Instead, she locks the door behind him and starts the water.

She's hardly taken a step inside the shower when he sidles up behind her, nudges her over a step so that he can get under the cool spray too. The water runs grey with the first layer of dust and grime they've been accumulating all day long, the ash blown off the smoldering building that almost claimed their partners. Castle fumbles around for the boar-bristle brush she uses and lathers it with the bodywash they've somehow silently agreed upon in the last few months. The dark amber liquid smells faintly of antiseptic and plants and rain; it's neither masculine nor feminine. It provides a comfort to both, something that's theirs in addition to her cherry smell and his minty one.

"What happened to dinner?" she asks slyly, leaning back into him.

"Hn. Later. Just get something delivered." Gratefully, she presses a kiss into the crook of his arm, happy to know he needed to be with her as much as she needed him there.

He scrubs at her arms and hands, paying particular care to her fingernails where the day's dirt has caked. She works at his chest with his own brush, stands on her toes to curry away the sooty marks at his neck from when Ryan or Espo clutched to him. The fingers of his free hand find that sensitive spot at her flank, the one he accidentally discovered during his (completely professional) hands-on examination of her back, that day with the tiger. It never fails to make her quiver, make her insides writhe and her nipples harden and her pupils dilate. He deliberately lingers there, pushing her just enough to make his intentions for the night known, then leaves her hanging and continues washing the rest of her dutifully. She's barely able to focus on the task at hand, but it has to be done before they can take this any further. Slowly, the physical evidence of the ordeal is washed away, the char and dirt and sweat all gone. Raw, sensitive, clean skin is all that remains.

She's bone-tired, they both are, but her need for connection and reassurance and _him_ is greater than a need for sleep.

Castle's capable hands start on a different task entirely. He brushes up and down her sides, pausing to turn her in his arms and bring her cheek to cheek with him. The water is cool, a balm to her already overheated flesh. Castle's rough fingertips and calloused palms explore her, unhurried and tender. Most often, shower sex is quick and playful: an early-morning exercise in multitasking. They rarely have time to kill in there, and she's delighted to find just how relaxing it can be too. If she weren't already feeling the heat pool low in her abdomen, the ache begging to be satisfied in a way that only Castle could, she could easily spend an hour simply letting him and the water soothe her this way.

But he finds all those spots on her and a mere massage is the last thing on her mind. Her neck, it makes her shiver when he skates the pads of his fingers over it, over her delicate throat and the nape of her neck and the top of her spine. The shell of her ear, she laughs when he lathes his tongue around it. The very base of her spine, he draws a deep moan from her when he grabs her almost roughly, his large hands wrapping around her, fingers resting over her vertebrae and setting them on fire. The backs of her knees, it makes her laugh freely and uncontrollably when he kisses her there. The inside of her thighs, he makes her cry out and beg, but he's not ready to give up his game. He touches her everywhere except where she needs him and it's absolutely maddening because it gets her every time and he knows it.

"Tease," she gasps out.

"Payback," Castle smirks up at her from where he kneels on the hard tile of her shower. He'll feel in the morning, she's sure, but he's not complaining. When she wakes him with her mouth in the morning, she'll make it all better and he'll get through work with minimal protest in spite of his creaky knee.

"For what? What'd I do?" she gasps as he nips her thigh and sucks. He won't be the only one waking up with marks to show from the night, but she's long-since given up being mad at him for the temporary tattoos he leaves over her, as long as they can be covered up for work.

"Four. Years," her partner growls around her flesh, still pinned between his teeth, "you teased me every day for four _years_ and you're asking me what you did?"

Chuckling, she manages a retort, proud to still have enough control to keep their banter going.

"Didn't exactly make it difficult, your constant innuendos and I've been known to be - AH!" He abandons her thigh and pushes his tongue inside her without warning and it's all she can do to stay standing when her hands fist in his thick, wet hair. Thought too soon about that control part. Dirty trick, he knows it and she feels his arrogant smirk over her slick folds. Two fingers replace his tongue, and _fuck_ she can't stop the short, sharp scream he claws from her when he repeats his treatment of her thigh and sucks her clit. He alternates over and over again – sucking to circling, ghosting his teeth over her to sliding over her with the flat of his tongue – always pausing just long enough between the changes in pace to bring her back from the edge.

"Castle!" he laughs darkly and the sound reverberates through her, settling somewhere in her spine. She knows she's in for a hell of a night when she sees his free hand work furiously at his cock. There's no way either will be satisfied with this alone, pleasurable as it may be. It's just a warm-up.

Her back hits the cold tile of the shower as she braces herself and the warring sensations are just too much. Castle's ragged breathing against her heat tells her he's just as close, her hips jerk into him slightly and he finally stops his damnable tease. One last swirl of his tongue and she's biting her lip, trying not to scream out of habit until somewhere in the back of her brain she remembers there's no one to hide from here. The groan her partner lets out around shocks her spine again and her pushes her that much higher right away, she's had no time to recover when her second release barrels through her and Castle gasps out his own from the floor.

She slides down, unsure if it's voluntary or simply because her shaking legs can no longer hold her. He looks at her through the hair plastered over his face and smiles impishly. She'll never get tired of that little boy smile, mischievous and sweet and hopeful all at once. Good thing too, it's kept her from putting a bullet through his foot more than once.

She gives him a bright smile and he maneuvers around to sit by her side, back against the wall. His fingers twine with hers and they catch their breath together, interrupted by the occasional lazy kiss. Eventually the water starts to run from pleasantly cool to cold, so reluctantly, they help each other up and rinse off again, though it won't do much good when round two is a given.

Castle grabs a fluffy white towel off the bar and ruffles her hair with it, and she tries to return the favour but it's little use. He's already recovering _quite_ enthusiastically and drying off when they can't seem to stop kissing and touching and sliding against each other isn't really a lesson in efficiency. Unwilling to sleep on soaking sheets later, she steers him back to the living room, settling for the couch. It's not as comfortable as his is, but it will more than do.

* * *

Covering her with his frame and pinning her by holding both her smaller hands in one of his above her head, Castle wastes little time. She's grateful, desperate to connect with him again on this most basic level, the one they denied themselves for far too long. Still buzzing with her earlier orgasms, she's nearly back to peaking as soon as he's inside her. He stills momentarily, allowing her time to breathe and kisses her cheekbones, makes her laugh breathlessly. His thrusts are slow and steady, and her heels soon dig into his ass as her legs wrap around him, her hips meeting his own and drawing him into her until he reaches that spot deep inside that only he can.

"Kate," he whispers her name reverently, staring down at her as only he can see her: open and vulnerable and completely trusting in him. "What you do to me, Kate..."

The day catches up with her again and her voice can't seem to work to say anything in reply, but his loving smile tells her she doesn't need to. He knows. Kate's legs shake and her eyes flutter closed, Castle's lips sliding over the paper-thin lids. For all they do, for all they've done, the sheer intimacy of the gentle act surprises her and warms her. She seeks his mouth with hers again, landing at first on his jaw that carries a little more than a 5 o'clock shadow now, but quickly finding her target. Sealing her lips over his, she brings him down to her, to rest above her, feel his wet chest slide against her own. Their tongues mirror their bodies, give and take, sliding and stroking with little hurry, backing off for air and to come back down a bit, only to build right back up.

Too slowly and too quickly at once, they climb higher little by little. His hoarse, gravelly moan spurs her on, she clenches around him, her breathing growing as ragged as his. She breathes his chosen name over and over, practically a chant. Her partner obliges her and quickens his thrusts, and finally, _finally,_ she breaks apart around him, gripping his cock tightly and making her teeth clench around his bottom lip. Castle isn't far behind, keeping her at her peak until he gives her one final sharp thrust, spilling deep into her.

It takes a while before they can move. Castle flips her in his arms, slides up to the arm of the couch, half-reclined, and drapes her over him before taking to drawing random patterns on her back. It's the first time in days it seems that she's perfectly content and a long sigh slips from her as they slip further and further into their own little bubble, their mental place of tranquility and precious peace.

"A'right there, love?" he chuckles, the term making her heart beat ever-so-slightly faster again. He saves that particular endearment for her ears, never says it in company, and it never fails to make her giddy. She shakes her head yes; more than alright.

* * *

Hazy and relaxed in the afterglow, Kate sees no point in trying to make it to the bedroom just yet. She barely has enough energy to reach behind her sofa and produce her ratty black and red blanket. It's too small to cover them both if they stay side by side, so with great effort on her aching limbs, she climbs into his lap, chest to chest, her legs resting either side of his. She awkwardly wraps their lower halves in it as best she can before sinking into his embrace again and resting her head at his shoulder. Her skin pebbles up with gooseflesh as the cool air in her apartment hits their still-damp skin and chills them both, their naked bodies trembling slightly and still warm from the inside out.

Castle holds her tightly, tucks her head under his chin as his hands wander her aimlessly. He touches everywhere, no intent of getting worked her up again, just needing the contact. He's taking inventory, she realises, reassuring himself she's still there and unharmed. It wasn't even either of them in danger today, but she understands. They could have lost their best friends out there. Sarah Grace could have lost her father, started a life based on loss far too soon. They could have ended up watching Lanie battle with the awful 'what if?' if Javi hadn't come back. Could have lost half their family and been left behind to pick up the pieces, again.

She sighs. It's all in the past now. They all made it, life marches on.

They'll have to move at some point, break the spell to dry properly and to have something to eat and to get to a real bed and maybe even eventually get some sleep in that bed (no promises). But for now, they have this and they have each other, and it's all okay for a little while. They have a few hours of peace. It's more than enough.

"Well, Castle," Kate sighs as she leans into him, "you got me through the day."

Always had. Always would.

* * *

**Note**: If you've made it this far, I'd like to say thanks for sticking with this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it even a fraction as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I'd appreciate any feedback you have to give, and I try to respond to all signed reviews in a timely manner. (Keyword: try.)

May you all find that someone or something that gets you through the day.


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